3:00 AM.
The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of old floorboards and the distant hum of the refrigerator. The moon filtered through thin curtains, casting pale silver lines across the carpeted floor of Petunia's modest bedroom. She moved quietly, deliberately, her motions refined from weeks of preparation.
Her travel bag lay open on the bed, neatly packed with the essentials: uniforms folded with surgical precision, undergarments, toiletries, and Her wand, still in its velvet-lined box, was the last item she placed inside. It hummed ever so faintly when her fingers grazed it.
She zipped the bag shut.
A pause.
Perhaps it was guilt—or merely the weight of leaving so cleanly—that tugged at her hand as it hovered near the drawer where she kept her pens. With a soft sigh, she sat at the little wooden desk in the corner and reached for a clean sheet of paper.
Her handwriting was tidy, mature—flawless for a girl her age.
---
Dear family,
I write this letter to inform you that I've received a scholarship abroad, awarded based on my academic performance.
The details of my destination will remain undisclosed, but rest assured I am well taken care of.
The scholarship will cover housing, education, and meals—so there will be no financial burden on you.
I understand this might come as a surprise. I also understand that I haven't been the most pious or affectionate daughter in action.
But then again, we were never more than a household sharing space and surnames, were we?
Please live without guilt. I do not resent you.
And I hope, in time, you won't resent me either.
Under this letter is a portion of my scholarship. Treat it as a parting gift—not a bribe, nor a farewell laced in bitterness. Just… something to ease the parting.
I may or may not return. But know that I am not running away in hatred.
Sincerely,
Petunia
---
She set the pen down with a soft click, folded the letter neatly, and slipped £5,000—crisp, fresh banknotes—underneath it. The envelope was placed on the kitchen counter where her mother was sure to find it.
As Petunia quietly made her way downstairs, bag in hand, the scent of fried eggs and buttered toast reached her nose. It was oddly nostalgic. She paused at the foot of the stairs.
Her mother was already in the kitchen, her back turned, humming softly to the tune of a morning radio that hadn't yet been switched on. She moved mechanically, preparing her husband's usual breakfast, lunch, and thermos of hot tea. A cigarette burned idly in the ashtray beside her.
For the first time in years, Petunia wondered if her mother ever really wanted this life—or if, like her, she had just accepted the quiet arrangement handed to her.
Petunia didn't say a word.
She adjusted the strap of her bag, slipped on her coat, and opened the door with painstaking silence. The morning chill hit her cheeks as she stepped outside.
The front garden was still veiled in dew. The streetlamps cast halos in the light fog, and no cars stirred in the cul-de-sac. She walked a few houses down before hailing a cab. One arrived with a low growl, headlights like tired eyes in the gloom.
The driver rolled down the window slightly.
"You're out early, love. Where're you off to this time o' morning?"
Petunia offered a small smile, one honed for strangers. "To the train station. My uncle's meeting me there."
The man glanced at her in the rear-view mirror, noting the well-packed bag and unusually mature tone for a girl her age. But Londoners were used to minding their business.
"Right you are. Hop in then."
---
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Petunia didn't look back. The house behind her remained in slumber—her letter on the counter, her truth quietly left behind.
She leaned her head against the cool window, watching the amber lights blur into a gentle haze as the city woke up around her.
Today was the day.
And though she was leaving behind her name, her family, and everything she knew, there was no tremble in her hands. No second thought.
Because today, Petunia Targaryen wasn't running away.
She was running toward something.
---------
Petunia arrived at King's Cross Station far earlier than necessary. The skies were still a soft grey, touched by the morning light just beginning to peel away the night. The streets bustled lightly, mostly with men in suits and flat caps hurrying to board early trains, briefcases in one hand, newspapers in the other.
With time to spare and her train not departing for several hours, Petunia decided to head across the road to a small café tucked neatly near the station entrance. The gold-lettered sign above the fogged-up windows read: "Cuppa & Crumb", a place that smelled of black tea, grease, and familiarity.
As she pushed open the door, a tiny bell jingled above her head.
Inside, the café was dimly lit with the haze of morning cigarette smoke hovering just below the cracked ceiling tiles. Worn-in booths lined the windows, most of them occupied by older gentlemen reading the Daily Mail or The Times, sipping tea and speaking in hushed tones. A few factory workers, still in their overalls, laughed raucously in the corner. Two women in pencil skirts and headscarves sat near the back, drinking coffee and whispering with raised eyebrows.
And into this scene walked an 11-year-old girl—poised, composed, and oddly self-possessed.
Petunia's navy-blue coat was buttoned neatly over her travel uniform, her hair pinned back without a strand out of place. The small travel bag hung across her shoulder, not once dragging against the floor as she made her way to the counter.
Heads turned. It wasn't every day a child of her age strolled into a place like this without so much as a flinch.
She stood at the counter, looked up at the woman behind it—a stout lady with plump red cheeks, greying hair tied under a kerchief, and a white apron with a streak of flour on the front.
"An orange squash and a slice of Victoria sponge cake, please." Her voice was clear, polite, and carried the faint edge of middle-class refinement, almost startling in its maturity.
The woman blinked. "Oh my," she said with a soft chuckle. "Little girl, where are your parents?"
On the inside, Petunia sighed. It was the fifteenth time this week she'd been asked. The same question, always wrapped in the same syrupy tone of concern. She was growing rather tired of it.
But on the outside, she flashed a warm, bright smile and tilted her head slightly—charming, innocent, impeccable manners.
"Good morning, ma'am!" she said with a light cheer. "My parents told me to order something and wait for them inside."
The woman melted instantly.
"Oh my, what a polite child you are! Absolutely lovely manners. You wait just there at that table near the front window, where I can keep an eye on you. I'll bring your breakfast, darling."
"Thank you very much."
Petunia turned gracefully and made her way to the designated table. It was tucked in the corner but offered a view of the door and a bit of the station across the road—perfect, she thought. She slipped into the booth, placed her satchel beside her, and let her eyes wander about the café.
Her posture remained upright, poised, yet relaxed. There was no fidgeting. No impatience. Just silent observation.
The men returned to their conversations, though more than one kept glancing at the curious girl with the old soul. The woman behind the counter, now deeply fond of her, bustled with joy as she poured a tall orange squash and plated a generous slice of sponge cake—thick with jam and dusted with icing sugar.
Moments later, it was placed in front of her.
"There you are, love. Eat up. You'll need your strength today, I reckon!"
Petunia looked up and gave her a smile that was a little too wise for an eleven-year-old.
"Yes, ma'am. I believe you're right."
She tucked in, delicately, the way she'd practised. Bite by bite, she savoured the sweetness of the jam and sponge, the crisp chill of the orange squash. And as she watched the early-morning traffic, the flurry of travellers, and the ticking hands of the wall clock.
---
As the clock struck ten to eleven, the station swelled with the final flurry of goodbyes. Petunia, ever discreet, left the appropriate change—plus a little tip—neatly beneath her empty glass and crumb-dusted plate. Without a word, she slipped out of the café and crossed the road. The morning rush at King's Cross was now in full swing.
She wove effortlessly through the crowd, past flustered parents dragging trunks, toddlers bawling, and the occasional owl hooting indignantly from its cage. She approached the stone barrier between platforms 9 and 10 with little hesitation, eyes glancing to either side. Then, at just the right moment, she stepped forward—vanishing cleanly through the barrier.
A moment later, she emerged onto Platform 9¾.
The scarlet Hogwarts Express loomed ahead, steam hissing from beneath its wheels, its polished metal glowing against the early sunlight. It was beautiful in a way she hadn't expected—almost like something out of a dream.
Yet, Petunia didn't linger. She boarded quietly, avoiding the congested cars where parents fussed over their children. Moving further down, she found an empty compartment near the rear of the train, neatly stowed her bag overhead, and sat by the window.
From her vantage point, she watched families through the smudged glass: mothers straightening ties, fathers clasping shoulders, tearful little siblings waving goodbye. A brief pang struck her chest. There was no one waving for her. No one fussing. No warm embrace before departure.
But that's alright, she thought calmly, folding her hands in her lap. That's how I wanted it.
The whistle blew, shrill and clear. Steam billowed, and the train gave a lurch.
Just as the wheels began to grind forward, the door to her compartment slid open.
Three boys clambered in.
The first had thick black hair and storm-grey eyes, sharp with mischief. He flopped into the seat across from her with a grin that looked like it was born there.
The second was more subdued—brown-haired with golden-tinged eyes, like sunlit honey. He looked thoughtful, quiet, already flipping through a book as he sat.
The third boy had untamed black hair, round brown eyes, and a pair of glasses perched slightly askew on his nose. He seemed a ball of restless energy wrapped in a school jumper.
Petunia didn't say a word, merely turned her gaze back to the window as the train picked up speed.
But the silence didn't last long.
"'Ello! Nice to meet you!" said the bespectacled boy brightly. "Looks like we're all new students, yeah? I'm James Potter, by the way!"
Petunia's eyes shifted back to him. James Potter, she thought with mild curiosity. So this is the chatterbox who marries Lily... She narrowed her eyes just slightly.
As if it were a chain reaction, the others followed suit.
"Hi, I'm Sirius Black." The boy with the grey eyes nodded coolly, leaning back like he owned the seat.
"And I'm Remus Lupin, pleased to meet you." The brown-haired boy gave a polite smile, his voice calm but kindly.
There was a beat of silence, and then three sets of eyes turned to her, expectant.
Right. She hadn't introduced herself.
Straightening just slightly, Petunia met their gaze and said, "Hello. I'm Petunia Targaryen."
All three boys blinked at once.
"Targaryen?" James tilted his head. "Never heard of it before."
Petunia raised a brow coolly. "Well... now you have."
Sirius stifled a chuckle. "Ooh, frosty."
James grinned and turned to Sirius, "And you're Black?"
"Yeah. And?" Sirius replied with a smirk, voice edged just enough to hint he'd had this conversation before.
"Nothing, hehe." James scratched his head and shifted in his seat. "Didn't mean anything by it. Just—thought all the Blacks were aiming for Slytherin, is all."
Sirius's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Sensing the tension, Remus coughed lightly and interjected, "So! Which house are you lot hoping for? I'm thinking... Gryffindor! Though, I wouldn't mind Hufflepuff. They sound all right, yeah?"
James jumped on the change in subject. "Oh, good call, good call! I'll definitely be in Gryffindor. Reckon it suits me, dunnit?" he said with a wide grin, puffing out his chest theatrically.
Then, slyly, he turned to Sirius. "What about you, Black? Gonna surprise us?"
Sirius shrugged, arms folded behind his head. "Anything but Slytherin."
James snorted. "Really? Thought that was, like, a birthright in your family."
Sirius arched a brow. "Yeah, well... I'm not exactly the family favourite, am I?"
Seeing the storm begin to gather in Sirius's eyes again, James wisely dropped it.
Then, his gaze landed on Petunia. "What about you, Targaryen? Got a preference?"
Petunia had been watching them all with mild detachment—studying their mannerisms, the odd familiarity in the way they bantered. So much like Lily and the boys... yet different, she mused.
Without missing a beat, she responded, voice low and crisp, "Like Sirius said—anywhere but Slytherin. No one wants to be the subject of bullying. And certainly not in these times."
That last sentence hung in the air a moment longer than expected.
The boys quieted slightly, surprised by the maturity in her tone.
Remus looked at her with faint curiosity. Sirius nodded once, respectfully. And James—well, he looked almost impressed, mouth slightly open before deciding to change the subject.
The train thundered on.
The train rattled along the tracks, the countryside blurring outside in green and gold streaks. The four young students were deep in their own world now, the initial tension having faded into something warmer—comradery stitched together with awkward laughter and youthful curiosity.
Suddenly, James's eyes lit up, the kind of gleam that typically preceded mischief, mayhem, or both.
"Oi!" he chirped, practically bouncing in his seat. "Let's compare wands!"
Petunia blinked.
Remus looked up from a chocolate frog card, cautious.
Sirius quirked a brow, already grinning. "You sure that's a good idea, mate?"
"Course it is!" James insisted, undeterred. "We won't touch anyone else's—don't want any magic surges or explosions or anything. We'll just, y'know, present them. In our hands. Like gentlemen."
He pulled his wand from his pocket with theatrical flair and rested it across his open palms like it was a prized sword. "Ta-dah!"
The others exchanged looks, then—admittedly curious—followed suit.
Sirius drew his wand and set it in his lap with a lazy elegance. "Mine's thicker, though, mate."
James gasped, mock-offended. "Thicker? Excuse me! Look at this—mine's way longer. Proper length, look at it! Eleven and a half inches, easy."
"Yeah, but mine's got more... heft. It's got presence." Sirius tilted his chin proudly.
Petunia, eyes narrowing in dread, could already feel the direction of the conversation slipping into dangerous territory. She rubbed her temples.
Remus, poor soul, tried to intervene gently. "Er, maybe we ought to choose... different words? I dunno why but I feel weird about how this sounds—"
But James, oblivious and overjoyed, cut him off: "Nah, nah, Remus, look at yours! It's way smaller than either of ours. You don't really have a say!"
Remus flushed. "Hey! It's not about size, it's—it's the core that matters!"
Petunia's head hit the seat cushion behind her with a soft thump. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, stop. Stop right now."
James leaned over dramatically, wiggling his brows. "Well, Petunia, who's got the coolest one, then? Be honest."
Before she could groan an answer, the compartment door slammed open with a clatter.
"No! Don't look!" cried the trolley witch, her wild grey hair flying, cheeks red as a tomato.
The four students froze, heads whipping toward her in varying states of guilt and confusion.
The elderly woman blinked at them, lips pursed. Her gaze fell on the scene: three boys sitting wide-eyed, each holding a wand with innocent pride, and one girl giving her the sharpest, driest look of judgment she'd seen since the Headmistress found her reading Witch Weekly on duty.
Petunia didn't speak—just looked at her, with the kind of unimpressed expression that belonged to someone thirty years older. A slow shake of the head followed.
"Tsk. Tsk." she muttered, folding her arms.
James, bless him, looked utterly clueless.
"Is there a problem, ma'am?" he asked with genuine innocence, blinking up at her.
The trolley witch cleared her throat, flustered beyond measure. "Ahem! Snacks. Would you like... anything off the trolley?"
"Yes, please!" Sirius said cheerfully, completely unbothered.
"Same here!" James added. "Got any of those treacle fudge squares? Ooh, and a pumpkin pasty!"
"Chocolate frogs for me, if you have any, thank you," said Remus politely, trying to restore a sense of normalcy.
Petunia, still casting silent condemnation at the woman who'd burst in mid-conversation, folded her arms. Then, almost as an afterthought, added: "Liquorice wands. Three. And a cauldron cake."
The trolley witch, now thoroughly embarrassed, began pulling items from her cart in a flurry of rustling wrappers and clinks.
These were not poor children. Black and Potter, clearly used to throwing money about like confetti at a wedding, paid for their snacks with shiny galleons as though they were Knuts. Remus, though more reserved, handed over the required coins without hesitation—his parents both working for the Ministry, after all.
And then there was Petunia, who coolly retrieved a pristine coin pouch. When she paid, she did it with the kind of subtle precision that suggested she'd already memorised exchange rates and wasn't about to be cheated a single Knut.
The trolley witch handed them their goodies, all while avoiding Petunia's eyes.
As she bustled out of the compartment, muttering something about "...children these days and their wand comparisons," Petunia watched her go.
"Well, that was dramatic," said Sirius, taking a bite of his chocolate bar.
"I'm just glad she didn't report us," muttered Remus, unwrapping a frog with careful fingers.
James chuckled, still oblivious. "What's her problem, anyway? All I said was mine's longer—"
Petunia didn't even look up. "Finish that sentence, Potter, and I'll hex you into next Tuesday."
A beat. Then:
"Y'know, I'm starting to think you and Sirius might actually get on," said James thoughtfully.
"One more word and I'll test your theory—with a bat bogey hex."
Sirius snorted.
And just like that, they all dissolved into laughter, the tension broken. The train rattled on, carrying them north to a world none of them fully understood yet—but already shaping them in unexpected ways.